


Gun Safety

by eggjam



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, D/s, Established Relationship, Flashbacks, M/M, Powerplay, non-bdsm powerplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-04
Updated: 2012-07-04
Packaged: 2017-11-09 04:49:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/451477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eggjam/pseuds/eggjam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're waiting for a boy to come home. When he's on the other side of the door, there's a foreboding click click, keys in the lock, or maybe he's spun a cylinder; a bullet like that, and you know Russian roulette is for cowards. He is the sear of an exit wound and the taste of that hammer-strike spark on the back of the barrel."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gun Safety

**Author's Note:**

> 100th follower gift fic for [biochip.](http://biochip.tumblr.com)

You're waiting for a boy to come home. The wait is a strain. You're always waiting for him, waiting for the way he makes you feel.

When he's on the other side of the door, there's a foreboding _click click,_ keys in the lock, or maybe he's spun a cylinder; a bullet like that, and you know Russian roulette is for cowards. He is the sear of an exit wound and the taste of that hammer-strike spark on the back of the barrel. You've been waiting for hours, and your blood is roaring, but your breath is bare. 

A drop of shower water crawls down the side of your face, curves at your cheek, and slips with the sudden quickness of gravity, catches in a net of black lashes.

They don't have your permission, but your eyes flutter anyway, wearied, hot, damp. Your skin is sticky on the cool leather of the couch, pajamas clinging to you in all the uncomfortable places still wet when you stepped into them, and the spackled ceiling is playing follow-the-leader with the light from the television. It's probably exhaustion and want for him to be home, always want because he's always absent somehow, but you don't want to think about why his understanding is the allure, and the white hot danger is everything you want. You breathe out. The curtains dance against the open window. Sleep is coming.

Your arm falls limply off the edge of the couch, knuckles brush the soft carpet, and the remote rolls away. You're waiting for a boy with a gun metal shell to make you feel.  


When you wake up, your body is tender and chilly, and you slept past the _click click._ There are warm thighs that you can't see on either side of you because he's covered your eyes with a soft length of something that he's knotted behind your head, and he's tied your wrists together behind your back but so loosely that you think you could slip out of it if you wanted. He's already at work, and your body is unprepared, fresh from sleep and soft from a recent shower.

Rough palms are sliding over the skin below your navel and above your hips, and you sigh, turning your face to the cushion below you. His fingers are a spider's legs, and they make you ache for a bite.

It's not his fault he's gone so often; he's on call, and he's the only dependable technician they have. But he hasn't taken off his scrubs, and he stills smells like life-or-death hospital machinery. You think of heart monitors - a screaming flatline that drags you under and waking up to the smell of him in your room before your other senses work - your pulse jumps, the screaming closes on a steady beat, and you exhale with disappointment when he draws his hand away just as it threatens gratification. He's doing it on purpose, driving you into his arms years younger, pulling you back into his arms playing on the moment, nudging you forward into his arms hours away when he holds you to him and says without words that this is forever in all directions.

Gooseflesh.

"Dirk."

"Shh."

Scar tissue.

He leans forward, pushing you onto your back, and rolls his hips against yours just enough to twist you tight before he's drawing back, and there's nothing left to tend your early want but the cool air of his apartment. You're not worried, though, even when he stands and leaves you bound, blind, and wanton by an open window overlooking a dark street, because you can still hear him. He's near you, and that's enough because you've been waiting. His shirt lands softly on the floor. Your heart goes _click click._ So does his. Safety's off.

Out there, guns scare you. You learned to cherish them when you have enough time to prepare your finger for the trigger, but they still scare you, and they might forever. Steady your arms, the kickback won't phase you. Steady your legs, two in the chest. You taste blood, swallow, and your heart is going a mile a minute, so you loop the safe word that you both decided was necessary, if Dirk wanted such control of the situation, over and over in your head because you're thinking about that night more than you normally do. It's because you didn't hear him come in, didn't have time to steady anything, but the tension gets you off, and when you feel his hand on your side, urging you up gently, your safe word explodes into nothing but bodily reflex, and you shift forward like he wants because you want it, too. He slides in behind you and runs his hands down your arms, dragging his teeth from the flesh of your neck to your shoulder. His tongue is so hot on your cold skin, his nails so rough, and you shiver, lean back into him. In here, nothing scares you.

Without his shirt on, you can feel the muscles of his chest against your back, and when his hands claw at your thighs through your pants, dragging them so they bunch up around your hips, you hiss and arch against him, your own tied wrists pressed to the lilac scar on your spine where a bullet signed its name the night you met him. It overwhelms you, and when he's rubbing circles against the turgid ache in your pants with his palm, you go rigid, smell his sweat, his cologne, his hospital, his tools, the must of a back alley where you first heard the _click click_ of a gun cocking and fell down against the twitching corpse of a dead woman with all her money gone, feeling the burning agony of blood running from two different holes in your front and two more in your back. Monsters who had learned to use the tools of hunters ran off as fast as they could, and you couldn't make your legs work or your eyes close and wondered why you had to be so adventurous, why you had to go out then instead of just waiting for the morning. The graffitied concrete jungle of the city was all but a humid cemetery that night, wailing ambulance sirens all but angel song, Dirk's face watching you passively the rainy afternoon you woke up all but an apology or an answer from God himself.

 

 _He has other duties, monitors to take care of or equipment to tune, but he watches you, unreadable as ever, sitting cross-legged at the foot of your bed again with a discarded hand of Gin Rummy by one of his knees._ " _You're still in high school_."

 _You roll your eyes, but you're so nervous you know the drugs are the only thing keeping you brave._ " _Actually, Strider, right now, I'm in a hospital bed if you'd chance a gander._ " _You've never wanted anyone to say 'yes' more than him, with his skilled hands and the way he's always there to listen even when what you say is just rambling or petrified mumbles, and even when his job isn't supposed to be listening._

 _Dirk smiles. Painkiller butterflies. You go lightheaded._ " _One date_."

 

One, one more, one more, " _Just one more,_ " and somehow, after it had become two years of 'one more,' Dirk was taking you to dinner to celebrate your graduation, kissing you across the table and telling you he'd cleaned out a whole drawer for you in his bedroom.

It slid out with a _click click_ of old wheels, and you upended a bag of clothes into it before he took you to bed for the first time.

Now, his hands trace familiar patterns down your back, and you groan when he lets you go, sliding back against him, but he's standing from the couch again. His pants hit the floor with a quiet impact, and you turn your head to the sound before something rustles outside and grabs for your attention. The world is intruding. You face it. Footsteps, then Dirk closing the window; your attention is his only. It shuts with a _click click,_ and you hear him walking toward you. Slow, deliberate steps, and then he's standing right in front of you, just waiting, all body heat and the smell of spice. He breathes calmly like it doesn't affect him to see you want him so much. It drives you wild, and you can't stand the waiting, so you try to move forward just enough to touch him. It's too close, and he puts a hand to your chest, settling you down onto the cushions. You're still cold and sensitive, hard, and his hand doesn't stay long enough or land low enough, but he lays himself over you, elbows on either side of your head, and though your hands are pressing into your back uncomfortably, when he breathes gun smoke against your mouth and starts winding his pelvis around yours, you can't care. Friction fires burn low in your gut, and the game is to stay still because he likes to feel in control here, but you can't hold your hips steady when the hard bulge in his pants is grinding down against yours. As soon as you move up against him, the friction stops, and you tamp down a frustrated scream. He waits too long to be fair, just drawing it out to teach you patience, and you hate him as much as you love the build up.

The pads of his fingers stroke up and down your sides, tugging your pants down finally, and his lips find every inch of bare skin to taste; the ridges of your shoulders, the prickling flesh of your arms, and his fingers push your leg up before they run blunt nails up the back of your thigh, twisting a moan from you. His lips move on to your chest, teeth plucking at one stiff nipple, and your mouth falls open. Silent screams, he worships you. His mouth descends along your stomach, favoring each stark scar, whispering healing words that you think might have been enough to save a woman who died because her wallet wasn't full enough to sate the appetite of a monster with bullets for teeth who was lurking in a grungy alley for a quick fix.

Hot everywhere, suddenly his touch is a blade he's clipping you into pieces with, and you're keening, shaking against him as two long fingers trail back up to fuck your mouth, his tongue finally landing on the shameless need between your thighs. You exhale and beg carelessly around his fingers, head hitting the arm rest. Your thighs trap his head where it is, and your toes curl when he goes all the way down. You can't see a thing, can barely hear the wet sounds of Dirk taking care of you, and all you are is raw feeling and vibrating nerves. You feel perfect, and your whole world is Dirk, your arching spine with fingers going numb under your own weight, and broken, hoarse pleas when you're not swallowing your own saliva to clean it off his hand even if you can't do anything to stop it running down your chin.

Dirk moves up and down, glides a perfect touch over all your most sensitive places. His mouth is relentless pleasure, focused on you, on savoring you, but he knows by now when your body is too tense to hold back anymore, and he stops, slowly takes his fingers and tongue away with him when he goes, and you cry out, angry at the tease, but you know what's coming now that he's brought you to the peak. There's a bag of tools at the end of the couch where he keeps a spare bottle of lubricant, and he slides back up your chest, slick skin rubbing against yours, kissing your cheek as you pant and sweat, feel it tickling well-traveled lines all across your body, so hard but so satisfied.

He reaches into the bag and jostles something.

**Clickclickclick**

Everything in you screams at once, and you feel that blunt-sharp-puncture pain again ripping through you. Bucking, you bolt upward, trying to shake the blindfold off with your hands still caught in the knot, panicked and stuttering out your safe word. "Double pistols, double pistols, double pistols, stopstop _stop_ , _Dirk_ ," you half choke and half force. The blindfold is off in seconds, and Dirk is holding your face in his hands, shushing you and stroking fingers over your scalp while you hyperventilate and stare through the window, searching for shadows.

"Hey, hey. Jake, it's over. Look at me," he says, and you do, shaking like a leaf and running your hands over your chest to make sure you're whole after he hastily tugs out the knot in your binding. "Jake, look at me. You're okay. It's okay, now. Look at where you are."

"I'm on the couch," you manage, your eyes still darting between his and the empty window. He kisses your forehead insistently, and you close your eyes, trying to slow your breathing. "In your living room."

"Our."

"Our living room."

"Take slow breaths. Do you need me to get you some water?" You reach up and hold his bicep in a vice grip as if to dare him to try, but you can still barely get words out. It's several minutes of stressful scrutiny of the entire room before feeling him comb through your hair and easily talking you through it have calmed you enough to relax. Closing your eyes, you exhale and sag against him.

"What the true blue hell was that?" Dirk looks behind you and carefully, so carefully now, reaches into the bag again, and you feel a little guilty because you know how he hates when this happens, hates feeling like he hurt you. It only takes him a minute to find what he's looking for, and you watch him deflate when he pulls out a polished socket wrench, holding it up for you to take. You grab it and turn it over, glaring at it as you turn the dial on the head, listening to it click at you. You're afraid of a socket wrench. He watches while you do this, and you know he knows how much you hate it, so he takes it away again and drops it to the floor. "I hate being afraid."

"I know."

"I hate that not taking the utmost frigging care with my stupid, ninnying feelings always means a spectacle like the one at present."

"I know." You elbow him lightly because that's all he ever says, but you're completely worn out from the emotional trauma.

"I'd wager the mood is effectively scrapped for the rest of the evening," you say, trying not to pout about it.

"There'll be other times," he says. "Do you want to call your grandma?" You shake your head.

"I'll be damned if I'm going to bother her every time I have a problem. I'm a grown fellow," you say, and he nods and reaches behind him to tug the throw blanket down over both of you. Trying not to pout doesn't work, and you grumpily snatch the remote from the floor, turning the T.V. back on. You guess Dirk turned it off when he got home, but now you're going to make him suffer through a movie with you even if he usually doesn't like them.

It's fine that he doesn't like them; it only means that, when you two settle comfortably under the blanket, you get dibs on the best position for seeing the screen: lying in front of him and waiting for his arms to wrap around you before you discreetly close your eyes and decide you're going to ignore the television altogether and focus on the way he holds you like this.

"Thanks, Dirk."

"Always." Your arm dangles over the edge of the couch, and you feel around underneath for the gun you have stashed there. It's a scary thing, and there are scars now that you'll have for the rest of your life, but with Dirk there to be patient and hold you through the bad nights, you're learning to cope with it click by click. For that, you think, it was worth it.


End file.
